open Everypony Comes to Rick's (RP)

[Mephala 2,633]

OUT OF CHARACTER

@@Alex Kennedy @ @ @@RunsWithSquirlz

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RICK’S, 10:00 a.m.

“S**, my brother.”

Considering it was only ten o’clock in the morning, the colourful words that were coming out of the mouth of a brown stallion with an unlit cigarette clamped firmly between his teeth and low-lidded eyes even less concerned then usual were…well…not unusual at all.

The other stallion, a staggering gray one, just blinked and added “Amen” as they stared down into the garbage, where a large rat was chewing on the corner of a rotted banana peel.

 

“Man, I thought I told you to empty the garbage when you left,” said the brown one, then, catching site of himself in a mirror, adjusted his Rasta cap over his dreadlock styled mane. Seemingly satisfied with the unnoticeable change, he just looked back into the can and chewed on his cigarette thoughtfully.

 

“I told – hic – Evergreen to do it,” slurred the other, and he reached for a mug on the table. The Rasta pony shoved out a hoof and forced it back on the table, still seemingly chill as hell.

 

“Benny, my man, Evergreen left at 4 a.m., yeah?” said the other slowly, as though this was a consideration that may be untrue despite the fact that she had punched out on the sloppily arranged board on the wall.

 

“Aw, s***,” said Benny, echoing the earlier messages, and they both just stared back in the can. Rats couldn’t be in the bar. This lasted for several minutes, as they seemed to contemplate the possibilities.

 

After this deep and thoughtful pause, the brown stallion lifted his head as though in understanding. The air seemed to hum with ideas, and then, opening his mouth, he said “So, you got a light or what, my brother?”

 

---

 

RICK’S, 2:00 p.m.

“This is a classic case of what I like to call somebody-else’s-problem,” said Evergreen as she cleaned the counters again, wrinkling her nose at the idea of rat feet scurrying across and dropping those nasty little poop pellets. She wiped it, and then, after another moment, wiped again. “Does Boss know?”

 

“He’s still picking the Bag for today,” said Marlee, sans cap and cigarette as he sat at the counter, just watching Evergreen clean. At her complaints that he never helped, he just sat there and didn’t give a crap, like usual, but her rage at the ash burn on the table was enough to mollify him to stop smoking for now. Rumour had it that Evergreen’s girlfriend was in some hardcore terrorist gang, but that didn’t mean he didn’t like watching her butt when she bent over.

 

“Like they’re not all the same,” she said sarcastically, slamming empty bottles on the table to show what would be on tap tonight, as if anyone would come in besides Benny and the one that always wore the bloodstained wedding dress and danced on the back table singing incoherently. (They preferred to leave her alone – the blood was usually fresh in appearance.)

 

“I beg to differ,” said a raspy voice from the corner, and a magnificent paper bag with gloriously hideous crayoned flowers floated into view, the only holes showing glowing bits of eye.

 

Rick was one of those enigmas that never showed an ounce of skin. Every day, he wore a bright white hazmat suit and completed the bulky marshmallow fluffiness with The Bag. (He got very offended when you didn’t use the capitals.) How many Bags Rick owned was unknown, but it was estimated to be in the near hundred thousands. Using a Bag more than once was a sin punishable by…something. No one knew. It had never happened before, and never would. Probably.

 

Even a single crease could make one bag different from one another. It was a very ritualistic process. The bag had to match the suit perfectly. This, of course, made no sense, as all the paper bags were brown and the suit could go with any colour, but last time this point had been made the perpetrator had ended up without recollection in a Dumpster with no spleen or wallet.

 

“There’s a rat in the trash,” blurted Evergreen as soon as that obscene bag came floating into view, and Marlee added a muttered, “and behind the counter”.

 

Having already used four of his ten words a day limit, Rick just walked over to the trash bin and peeked inside. After a few moments pause, he disappeared into the back rooms, his offices. No one was permitted near the offices. It was another rule, and this time it meant a missing rib bone.

 

There was the sound of scuffing, and Evergreen and Marley looked over to see a red, rusty wagon with a massive can of some gas crammed in it. Rick dragged it over to the bin and upended it.

 

There was a sound a bit like a wet bag being hit with a hammer, and Rick stared at the tank for a few seconds, then added, “no rat.”

 

With that, he stuck a cigarette beneath his bag and lit up, ignoring the fact that it looked a bit like some stupid blazing tusk, and went back into the dark, dank offices.

 

There were no words, and as they stared at the tank for a while, contemplating this.

 

There were still no words three hours later when the bar opened and the tank sat in its garbage bin citadel, soaked in air freshener to disguise the rotting smell of squished rat.

 

---

 

GRAVEYARD, 6:30 p.m.

Muertos sat back and closed his eyes with a sigh, his chair creaking ominously and making the sound bounce off the stone walls. There had only been two bodies that day, only six hours of labour, and though his muscles ached he was grateful for the break in routine. Lately, some sickness had grasped much of Equestria, and until a cure was found money was good but rest was not.

 

He could not sit long, however; there were many hours left in the day for the half bat pony, and night was always a time he could think so clearly through, silent and dark. No one had booked for tomorrow yet, and as a result if they came in before 8 o’clock, their body be damned. They could hold on to a corpse a bit longer.

 

Snatching up his saddle bags, Muertos sighed. He knew he was probably disheveled, but that didn’t matter right now. He planned to go to Rick’s, and considering the state of the majority of the employees, it seemed unfair to make any judgements on his own appearance right now. While the barmaid was indeed sort of hot, he had never felt anything more than a grudging respect for her easy supply of alcohol.

 

He wasn’t addicted to alcohol by any means, but sometimes it was easy to take the edge off of any nasty thoughts he may have had regarding his future or others. He was by no means a depressed pony, but his often poor luck and lack of romantic drive made him seem grim and dull to others, not to mention that his heritage was scorned by most. Bat ponies were already relatively disliked, but to be a half-breed was even worse. There had been one mare, once, but it was strange how fate turned her into the embrace of a full bat pony.

 

Climbing up the twisting stairs that exited the mausoleum, Muertos traced the names of the long dead, breathing them out by memory. Rose Seed. Star Catcher. Dream Fire. Stallions, mares, young, old, and he had handled all of their bodies after their last breath. Most found this dark, and it was by no means a job that most folk wanted, but Muertos felt most at home among the whispering walls of the cold underground. There were no surprises. No emotions. Just cold hooves and drying skin and the same old routine.

 

Now stepping into the fading light, he looked up at the Celestial Night Tower (more commonly abbreviated as the CN Tower), which was glowing dark purple today, its tip lost in thick cloud coverage. It was still nippy, spring being just around the corner, and he took a cloak out of one of the bags and started walking, slinging it around himself as he did so.

 

Ignoring the stallions and mares who offered themselves to him on the streets, or the still roaring traffic, Muertos kept walking, head down to hide his eyes. His dark blue mane was sticking out slightly, and he knew sometimes his strong physique drew positive attention from a few, but all he was thinking about was adult life; bills, and work, and where his food would come from next.

 

He arrived at his destination presently, though most overlooked the dingy sign despite its mysterious appearance in the town. Muertos still remembered that day. He had been looking over the railing of Lake Canterio when it seemed to just shimmer into existence out of nowhere, replacing the old thrift shop that had been there. No one had seen the owner of the latter since that day a year and a half ago, and Muertos was surprised the place was still standing, considering there were only two regular paying customers. (The dancer just danced.)

 

Pushing open the door, the foul smell hit his nose. As expected, the only one there was Benny, already piss-drunk from bar-hopping all day. He ignored the attempt at conversation that the stallion out forth, ordered his barley beer, and then plunked down in his regular booth near the back, ready for another night of sour beer and mostly silence (when Benny wasn’t flirting with Evergreen, that is).

 

(OoC: Sorry guys, this was supposed to be longer, but I have to get going. As a result, I will be posting the POV of my second character at a later date, probably tomorrow, and finishing up and last minute things that ended abruptly. Feel free to enter the bar in the meantime and get to know one another, etc. c:)

[Alex Kennedy 1,228]

((As much as I hate posting first in RPs, here I go.))

 

Rambler sighed as he wandered the streets of Trotonto. He'd arrived here for a few days ago, but so far the city wasn't nearly as interesting as he'd hoped. Hell, he hadn't even been able to find a decent pub yet. It was then that he noticed a rather rundown looking establishment by the name of Rick's. Figuring it was as good a place as any to get drunk, he decided to wander in. While it certainly wasn't the nicest place he'd been, he was no stranger to dive bars and the like. After examining the inside for a while, he walked up to the bar and ordered a beer, noting as he did that the bartender wasn't half bad looking. A man notices these things.

[RaptorJaysus 178]

Gareth was on a tour of duty with some important diplomat, but all that mattered now was his time to relax. A griffon walking through Trotonto tends to draw attention, but he couldn't care less right now. Walking down the main street, Gareth was recalling his duties for tomorrow. He remembers his superiors mentioning something about the embassy and then something on the table being poisoned. That didn't matter for now. He walked down a small street to the side and saw a somewhat rundown building with an establishment by the name of "Rick's." Ah good. This should have some excellent drinks. Places like this normally do. Taking a breath, knowing he could finally relax, the griffon walked in. Walking up to the counter, noticing the attractive mares in here, he slicked his feathers back, smoothing them even more. "What is the strongest thing you have here?"

[RunsWithSquirlz 274]

"Oh, brother" Firedancer teased her brother. They had just moved into a rundown shack by the waterfront, close enough to smell the fish guts. "This place is simply fabulous, much better looking then your girlfriends house back in Baltimare!" she kicked open a musty window.

 

"Ex. Ex-girlfriend, Firedancer!" he stomped down a hoof causing dust to fill the air. He had a coughing fit and decided to go outside.

 

"Why bother locking the door..." Firedancer snipped and she trotted by him quickly. Firewhip hacked a final time and followed his sister. He quickly came to a conclusion that his taming skills would not be needed here either, unless it was rats or rich mares house pets. He cringed. He hated house pets.

 

"Rick's,eh?" he observed as he followed Firedancer in. Taking note of the hot bartender, he quickly ditched his sister and went over to the counter "Hey beautiful, got anything strong enough?".

 

Firedancer snorted and rolled her eyes in the background.